


The Eyes Have It

by Alexis_Tenshi



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous Relationships, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Barry Allen, Families of Choice, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt Barry, Hurt Leonard Snart, Leonard Snart Defense Squad, Leonard Snart Lives, Lewis Snart's A+ Parenting, Metahuman Leonard Snart, Mick Rory Defense Squad, Mostly Gen, Oculus Powered Leonard, POV Leonard Snart, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 10:47:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9320276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexis_Tenshi/pseuds/Alexis_Tenshi
Summary: Leonard Snart learned patience at a young age, back when anything less earned him a sharp slap across the face from his father’s palm. Later in life this served him well, his patience allowing him to think through plans that others would have abandoned or deemed impossible. It would serve him well again now, in this new prison, with these new powers.He would wait, listen, and learn. He wouldn’t act until he had all the information he needed, and was certain the time was right for him to succeed. He knew how to do that better than most. But that didn’t mean it was easy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> -Yes, the pun in the title is intentional. It’s a Snart story, after all.
> 
> -Written after Legends 2-8, so goes AU from there. Possibly AU elsewhere in small details as I know my memory of the series isn’t flawless.
> 
> -I labeled this gen and with various pairings because it can be read as gen, but I believe it lends itself easily to many possible pairings; ColdWave, CaptainCanary, ColdFlash, or a combo of any/all of the above. But I didn’t pick one for it to specifically be. I enjoy pretty much all pairings involving Snart.
> 
> -Len is an unrepentant killer in this. But not, imo, a bad guy. Your moral interpretations may vary.
> 
> -There is a scene of torture in this, specifically Len getting whipped. I don’t consider it especially graphic. But again, your mileage may vary, proceed with caution if necessary.

Leonard felt the small sound of pain escape his lips, but it was too late to stop it. He cursed himself mentally for it and felt an answering throb of power from his palms. He fisted his hands closed tighter, his fingers digging into his own flesh. There would be marks in his palms from his own nails afterward, he knew, probably even some blood. But that tiny lose of blood was nothing compared to the streaks of it leaking across his back.

He was being whipped. He was whipped weekly, on Wednesdays. At least that was what his capturers said. It could just as likely have been a Sunday, for all he knew. But they said that every time they did it, ‘its Wednesday, time for your weekly whipping.’ With a laugh, like they thought that basic use of alliteration was clever and they were proud of it. Every. Damn. Time.

They were laughing now too, now that Len had made a sound. He knew if they heard his pain, they enjoyed this more. It was why he always tried to keep quiet. He even succeeded, sometimes.

He had his father to thank for that, he supposed. He had learned a long time ago that truly cruel people were only spurred on to greater feats of cruelty the more they knew they were being effective. As if the blood running down his back wasn’t enough. As if a pre-teen with a clearly broken jaw wasn’t enough.

They wanted to hear him cry. They wanted to hear him suffer. They wanted to hear him break. They wanted to hear him beg.

That last one they wouldn’t get. Ever. Not them. Not his father, who he’d killed years ago.

He had to remind himself of that sometimes; that his father was dead. That he’d killed him himself. Some might think he ought to regret that; killing his own father. But it was a comfort to him. If anyone else had done it, he wouldn’t be as sure that the bastard was truly dead.

He would kill these people, too. Eventually. When the time was right.

He was a patient man, Leonard Snart. His father had taught him that, too. Anything less earned him a sharp slap across the face, at best.

Now his patience would earn him time to plan, time to learn, time to be certain that when he killed all these bastards they would stay dead and he would be free. It also earned him pain. A great deal of pain. But nothing that he couldn’t survive. Nothing that he wouldn’t return tenfold when the time came.

The whip snapped across his back again. Leonard bit down on his tongue to keep silent and fisted his hands tighter. His tongue was bleeding now too. He tasted it in his mouth. But his hands remained closed. That was the most important thing. He needed to keep his hands closed, his palms hidden, no matter what they did to him. It wasn’t time yet.

The whip struck his back one more time, and Len again bit down on his tongue. More blood pooled in his mouth. But his hands remained closed. They laughed at him, shouted insult after insult.

He spit at them, missed and hit the floor. A small puddle of blood and saliva landed on the concrete. They punched him for that, laughing at his failed aim. Once across the face and once in the stomach. But his hands remained closed.

They laughed as he hung there; shirtless and bleeding, chained spread eagle by his wrists to the ceiling, his bare feet barely touching the floor. His hands closed tightly into fists.

They paid no attention to his hands. That was what was important. That was the plan.

\-------------------------------------------

When they were done with him they cleaned him up and then tossed him unceremoniously back in his cell. They wanted him to live, so they always tended to his wounds just enough to make sure infection didn’t set in. Not nearly enough to alleviate the pain or stop the scarring. Not that it mattered. His body had already been littered with scars long before he ended up in this place. What were a few dozen more?

He’d kept his hands closed for another round, another Wednesday, and they’d never noticed anything. That was what was important.

Back in his cell and alone, Leonard finally relaxed his hands. They’d stopped throbbing awhile back, after the whipping, while his wounds were being tended. But he’d kept his hands closed and hidden, just in case. Looking at them now, they appeared normal.

Len flexed his fingers, opened and closed his fists, rubbed his palms together, to get circulation back in his hands. His joints ached, but that would pass. It paled in comparison to his back, which felt like it was on fire from the whipping.

But no one had noticed anything out of the ordinary. No one had looked twice at his hands. That was what was important.

He picked up the shirt, his only one, that had been left in the cell. It was a button down that had at one time been blue. It looked black now, dirt and blood stained. His pants were likewise black. His feet remained bare, his socks and shoes long ago lost.

These were not the clothes he’d worn when he stuck his hands into the Oculus. He wasn’t sure where or when he’d gotten them, or where the others had gone. He’d puzzled over that for awhile, then dismissed it as unimportant in the grander scheme of his planning. These were the clothes he’d had since he woke up here, since the explosion that should have killed him.

Since then, since the whippings started, he’d been grateful for the shirt. He could get it back on much easier than one he’d have had to pull over his head. It still hurt. He still winced every time as his back muscles pulled against the recent injury and the fabric connected with his raw skin. But without it, he’d be shivering from the cold and lose of blood. And here alone in his cell, no one would hear if he made a small noise or two of pain.

His dinner had been left on the floor for him, cold and disgusting. But he knew he needed it to maintain strength, so he picked it up. He carried it to his shelf bed, which had a thin mattress and a thin blanket and nothing else. He crouched on the bed, tucking his bare feet up under himself for warmth. He ate and he thought; plans forming, shifting and reforming, as always.

\------------------------------

Late at night was when he practiced. The guards were fewer then and did rounds rarely. There were dim lights glowing outside in the hallway, sometimes moonlight from the lone barred window in his cell, but never anything bright. He sat in his bed, feet tucked up underneath himself, blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and looked at his hands.

They looked normal. Palms just bare, pale expanses of skin. Len flexed his hands, wiggled his fingers, open and closed his fists. No change. Not that he’d expected any.

It’d taken a long time for him to figure out how this worked. He’d thought pain was the trigger, at first. So he’d scratched himself hard enough to draw blood, bit his tongue, even slammed his recently whipped back into the wall. That hadn’t worked.

But every time _they_ tortured him, it happened. Len had managed to hide it from them. It had been a small miracle at first, that they hadn’t seen. They’d been too intent on inflicting pain to notice. Then Len had hidden his hands on purpose each time they hurt him. Each time he felt it, even if he couldn’t see it; the palms of his hands throbbed with energy.

But if _he_ hurt himself, nothing happened. It was a mental thing, he’d figured out eventually. It was tied to his psychology. He knew he wasn’t in any real danger from himself, no matter how much pain he put himself through. But when _they_ caused him pain…it reacted, this power.

To trigger it without being in actual imminent danger had been a challenge, but Len had worked it out. It responded to other kinds of need, too. Now, he was making steady progress on controlling it.

Leonard took a deep breath, calmed his mind, and focused on his hands. He willed power to them, and he felt it flowing through him toward his palms. He waited, mentally counting down the seconds. Then the eyes opened.

In the middle of each of Leonard’s palms there was now an eye, open and staring up at him. They were blue, brighter than the eyes in Len’s head, but still resembling his natural eyes in most respects. Fully formed, human looking eyes, in the palms of his hands. When the eyes closed completely, they were hidden and his hands indistinguishable from normal hands. Now…they were very clearly not normal.

Len stared back at the eyes in his hands with a slight smirk, pleased with himself. Not bad. He’d managed to will them to appear a few seconds faster than the last time he’d tried. Not nearly as fast as he’d need to become, but not bad. He blinked, and the eyes in his hands blinked back at him.

 _His_ eyes, he corrected himself. His _second_ pair of eyes, nestled in his hands. It had gotten easier to control once he’d accepted that distinction. These eyes were a part of him, just as the ones in his head had always been. They didn’t function the same, but they were his none the less. When he’d thought of them as something _other_ ; some part of the Oculus left in him, controlling them at all had been nearly impossible. Once Leonard accepted them, claimed them as his own, it started to get easier.

Easier than nearly impossible was still damn difficult, of course. But Len had faith in himself. He had to. No one else was going to come save him. Everyone else thought he was dead. Would’ve been nice if they’d taken the time to check and double check, of course. But he tried to not hold that against them…too much.

Leonard was used to relying on himself and only himself. His father had taught him that.

Len shook his head, willing thoughts of his father away. He did _not_ want to see his father!

He willed thoughts of Lisa away too, though more gently. She was the first person he’d relied on, when she was old enough to help him. He’d seen her, could see her again and it wouldn’t hurt. But it wouldn’t help either. She was on earth, in her correct time, living her life and getting along fine on her own. Their father had taught her that too. She would be alright without Len looking in on her.

Mick, though…Mick was the second person that Len had tried to rely on. Sometimes it went well, sometimes not so much. But Len didn’t blame Mick for that, not really. Mick had his own issues and his own personal struggles. But he was fighter and he won his own battles more often than not. At least he had, back when Len was around.

Now…Len wasn’t so sure. Len’s ‘death’ had seemed to hit Mick harder than Len expected it to. And damn near no one else was trying to help Mick! The new girl had, but she was far from ideal. Her antiquated, if well intended, ideas about what inner demons Mick was fighting would likely do more harm than good.

So Leonard looked in on Mick, thanks to the powers the Oculus had gifted him in the form of eyes in his palms. He knew he had the capability of doing more than just looking, but that was harder. _Affecting_ something he saw was harder, much harder.

He’d almost managed to have something of a conversation with Mick, over a few nights. Len had tried to help, had tried to get Mick to take better care of himself, but the connection was difficult to maintain. He kept getting pulled back there, to where he actually was, alone in his cell.

He knew Mick thought he was just hallucinating. Len had no good way to convince him otherwise, either. He couldn’t actually touch anything he looked at. Projecting his own image so Mick could see it had been hard enough. It left Len exhausted.

Len hadn’t been able to do more than will his second set of eyes open the last few nights. He hadn’t been able to _see_ anything with them. It was disappointing, but Len tried to not let it discourage him. Any new skill needed to be practiced and practiced to make it stronger. This was no different. At least that was what he told himself.

So Leonard thought about Mick, stared down at the eyes open in his palms, and _willed_ himself near his old friend. Nothing happened. It was a long night. Len kept trying.

It was important to just think about Mick in a general present sense, not a specific memory, or Len would end up back at the time of that memory. He had gotten that wrong countless times. He had watched his own history with Mick play out in front of him over and over. Sometimes he saw Mick’s past that he hadn’t been a part of. None of that was helpful in his planning.

It was also dangerous to imagine what might be in the future, when they were reunited, or the far future of endless possibilities. Len had felt the inherent danger of that from the first. His mind could get lost, exploring countless possible futures.

He _had_ gotten lost, in point of fact. Not just exploring Mick’s possible future, but countless others of people that Len knew. Len wasn’t sure how much time he had lost. But eventually hunger drew him back to his body in his cell. He was grateful it had been that, and not a guard. The whole thing could have been blown right then.

It would have been helpful, of course, if he could look into the timelines of his capturers themselves. He had tried to, of course. But it only seemed to work for people he knew well personally. He wasn’t sure if that was because it was a limit of the power itself, or something else mental that he needed to work a way around. So he practiced.

Nothing was happening. Leonard sighed heavily. He looked outside through the bars in his window at the position of the stars. Several hours had passed. It was time to try and get some sleep. Wednesday would be here again soon and his body needed sleep to heal.

Len willed his second eyes closed and watched as they shut and disappeared into his palms. At least he could control that much.

He would try again tomorrow night.

\----------------------------------------------

 “I don’t _get_ you, Sara!” Mick growled, to Len’s satisfaction.

Leonard had been connecting with Mick for over a week now, each night. They were never long conversations and Mick still thought he was hallucinating. But Len thought they were making progress. This was good evidence of that. Mick had cornered Sara alone on the ship and was trying to talk to her, as Len had suggested. He leaned back to watch, content to just look and not interfere.

“Yeah, well, I don’t know what to tell you, Mick.” Sara deflected, posture smug, “What _do_ you get? Food and fire? Deep understanding is not your forte, admit it.”

Mick visibly flinched and Len tensed. If he could punch someone, he would have taken a shot at Sara right then. Not that it would have connected, even if Len was corporeal, with her training. But it was the try that would have counted.

“I used to _like_ you!” Mick spat, “You were one of us! Me, you, and Len! We _got_ each other! We were the _same_ here! We knew none of us fit right, here with these heroes! We _counted_ on each other, the three of us!”

Sara just stared at Mick, saying nothing. Len studied her face and tried to puzzle her out, as he had many times during these visits. He’d tried to appear to her too, but he’d never managed it. She wasn’t as open to it as Mick was. And Mick wasn’t exactly open. It meant something.

Len thought he’d figured it out, but he needed further proof to be sure. If she was going to be part of his plan, after he broke out, he needed to know what to expect from her.

“But now, you’re the _Captain_!” Mick continued, saying the title like it was an insult, “All respectable and properly heroic! Don’t got time for _me_ anymore, except to push me aside, dismiss my ideas, act like I’m a complete idiot. I _know_ you know I’m not.”

Sara was tense, shifting her weight to the balls of her feet like she was waiting for a fight. Mick wouldn’t attack her. Len knew him better than that. Oh, he would attack her under certain circumstances, sure. But this wasn’t one of them. Sara ought to be able to tell that too.

“Is it some sort of requirement for being Captain?” Mick asked next, mocking, “Treating your former friends like shit? I’m sorta glad Len ain’t around to see it. He was kinda sweet on you, you know. Would break him up, seeing you act like he _never_ _even fucking existed_!”

Leonard’s lips formed a little ‘o’ at that. Good one, Mick!

“You take that back!” Sara shouted, raising her voice for the first time.

“Why should I?! It’s the truth! You haven’t even mentioned his name in months!! We visited Lisa, had the funeral, and since then you been acting like you haven’t even thought of him _once_ since!”

“Don’t act like you’re the only one in pain!” Sara spat back, “I think of him _every_ fucking day!”

“Coulda fooled me!” Mick wasn’t about to back down, now that he’d started, “If you missed him, even if you don’t give a damn about _me_ anymore, you shoulda _come_ to me! Maybe we wouldn’t talk much, but we could have a beer, been together, _remembered_ him together!

“Instead you just told me to fuck off over and over. Oh, you never said the words! But I know when I’m not wanted around! If it wasn’t for knowing Len wanted me here, believed in what we were doing enough to die for it, I would’ve been gone months ago!”

Len winced at that. It was true he’d thought what they were doing was important. He’d even thought it was maybe more important than Mick, for a brief time. But not for a long time since. Even when he’d been willing to die; he would’ve died for Mick, and Sara, and the others…and as a middle finger to the Time Masters, truth be told…but _not_ for the mission!

Now Mick was here, hurting himself for this mission, and Len was trying to set him on a better path for himself. He wasn’t sure it was working. But at least this was some sort of progress.

“So if you wanna go, then just go!” Sara snarled, but there was pain behind it, “We don’t need you here! We don’t….you can leave! You’re free to leave! You don’t need to…you didn’t….”

She trailed off, struggling with herself, as Len watched. This was it. She either spat it out now, to Mick, or she never would.

“You’re not the one that let him die! _I am_!” Sara’s voice shook.

There it was. Leonard smiled to himself, satisfied. Oh, he felt bad for her, sure. But he’d been right about her, and that was more important.

Mick was shocked into silence at that admission. He just stood there staring at her.

“You were knocked out! You didn’t have a choice! But _I_ did! I could have stopped him! I could have taken his place! I deserved to die more than he did! I’ve killed more people, for reasons that weren’t even my own, than he did! I died before; it wasn’t even natural that I was alive again to begin with! If I’d died again, it would’ve just put the balance back!

“It should have been me! But instead I listened to him, saved you, got you out of there and…and we’re alive and _he_ should be instead! And it’s my fault! Every time I…every time I look at you, I see _him_! I see the choice I made, to save _us_ instead of him! Every time I’m with you, all I can think about is how we’re both alive because I _let him_ die for us! I kissed him goodbye when I should have been pulling him out of there!”

Len licked his lips at the memory of that kiss. It had been a good kiss; even if it had been stolen during the duress of his certain death; even if she hadn’t really meant it beyond that. He wasn’t certain she did. But the exact flavor of her feelings for him wasn’t the important thing right then. That she had them at all was what was. This was all good for his plan, as he’d suspected it would be.

She was wrong, of course. She didn’t deserve to die any more than he did, or Mick did, or any of them. He had made his choice, in the heat of the moment. It hadn’t turned out like he’d expected. He didn’t want anyone else making that same choice. He actively advised Mick against it during their talks since. But he wasn’t sure he regretted it. Ask him again once he had his second eyes mastered and was out of that hellhole of a prison. Then he’d decide for sure.

“You…kissed him?” Mick asked, focusing on what was important as usual.

Mick’s anger was gone, as was Sara’s, drained away after their confessions. What was left was their shared grief, their mutual understanding. Sara knew how she had treated Mick was wrong, even if she hadn’t said as much as of yet. Mick knew he should have stood up for himself, got help sooner. Leonard saw all this, even if the two of them didn’t realize it all just yet, and smiled.

They would be alright, the two of them, he decided. As tempting as it was to watch this exchange to its conclusion, they might even hug! It was time to get back. Len had learned what he’d needed to know. Mick and Sara would help him when the time came, and they would do it together, willingly cooperating with each other. That would make a lot of things run much smoother.

Leonard drew himself back to his body, and his cell.

\----------------------------------

It was Wednesday. It didn’t matter if it truly was or they just said it was. Wednesday was the day they whipped him, and they were whipping him, so today was Wednesday.

Leonard had no idea how long he’d been in this prison. He had no idea how many Wednesdays he’d survived. But he knew he had had enough. He knew it was time, at least for the first stage of his plan.

Leonard was a patient man. Hurting him, even again and again, didn’t change that. It just sharpened it.

They were taking him down from the chains; the whipping was over, for this week. For the first time, in a long time, Leonard let one of his hands loosen out of a fist while they did so. He gripped one of his capturers with that hand, and held on hard, just for a second. In that second, Len opened the eye on that palm and released his power into that man.

The man jolted back like he’d been shocked, it probably felt as if he had, and yanked Len’s arm around to stare at his hand. Len’s palm was empty and bare, no trace of an eye or anything unusual. The guard looked at his arm where Len’s hand had been, and there was no trace of anything. The man that’d whipped him stared at Len in confusion, but he said nothing. What was there to say? There was nothing there.

Len schooled his expression into a blank, beaten one. But everything in him wanted to stare and smirk and make quips at his capturers. Later. He had to stick to the plan.

\------------------------------------

That guard complained the next day, loud enough for Len to hear, about the terrible nightmares he’d had the night before. Only, it wasn’t the next day. It was three days later. The guard had not been heard from for days, they were just about to send someone to his place to check. He had slept for three days and not realized it. But he remembered the nightmares. He’d remember them for the rest of his life, as short as that might be.

Leonard remembered how that guard had laughed while Len had been whipped. Now he listened as that man’s voice was filled with fear and confusion. Alone in his cell, Len let a large self satisfied smirk form on his face.

\-------------------------------

It took Leonard some time longer to fine tune it. It took a certain amount of his power to send someone into a nightmare comprised of a mixture of their worse memory and their worst fear. Only, the nightmare wasn’t really a dream. Oh, they were asleep, but it was real. Somewhere, sometime, it was real and they were living it. The Oculus powers that were now Len’s were…complex. He understood them, on a certain level, but he wasn’t sure he could explain them well to anyone else.

He could look into the timelines of people he knew well, sometimes talk to them, as he’d first found. Convincing them he was real? He hadn’t had any success there.

He could look into anyone’s timeline; if one of his second eyes had physical contact with that person’s skin for long enough. He couldn’t talk to them. But even then, this was harder. It took intense concentration and was physically and mentally draining for him. It also ran the risk of Len finding out too much about that person and developing some sort of sympathy for them. Thankfully, Len was mostly immune to that, especially in regards to his capturers. But he filed the information away anyway.

That was all well and good; a great source of information. But it wasn’t enough to get him out of this place. This place was so fortified; just information about it wasn’t going to be enough to get himself free. It was frustrating, to put it mildly.

And then he discovered how to make the nightmares. He pushed a person’s consciousness into a pocket timeline, made of their own memories and fears. Their body stayed where it was, as his did when he looked into timelines. But unlike Len, they couldn’t distinguish that where they were, wasn’t where their bodies were. Lacking his powers, their brains couldn’t make sense of it.

It was a lot more complicated than that, but that was what Len broke it down to for himself. He was no scientist. He suspected if he ever shared the details of his abilities with the scientists on his old team, they’d have a field day. But he wasn’t sure he ever would. Len was never one for sharing.

But the important thing was he mastered doing it, not explaining the details.

A certain amount of power to knock someone out into the nightmare immediately. A certain amount of power that sat inside them and waited until they fell asleep for the nightmare to begin. A certain amount to kill someone within an instant, cause a stroke or a heart attack because the nightmare was so bad. A certain amount to make the nightmare last a night, or a week, or a month, a year, a lifetime.

Leonard knew them all, because he’d practiced them all on the guards that imprisoned and tortured him.

He wondered, briefly, if he could make the nightmares a _good_ ‘dream’ instead; one filled with pleasure and possibility. He suspected he could. But he had no desire to. Maybe someday, on someone else. These people deserved every moment of pain he gave them.

As many as he experimented on with his powers, there were always more that showed up. He knew they would. It was all part of the plan.

He was never suspected. It was unlikely he had any powers. He showed no signs. Who would be able to keep powers hidden during so much torture? And even if he did, they would be time based, or cold based, surely! And the people affected were all having nightmares! Nothing to do with him!

It was amazing what people said around you when they thought you were beaten and broken and helpless. Exactly as Leonard had planned.

\----------------------

The actual prison break itself was almost anti-climactic. Len had taken part in much more exciting ones. That didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy it.

His hand on the head of a guard, palm to forehead, and the guard crumbled to the ground. Both hands on the two guards that came running at him next and they both hit the floor a moment later. All trapped in nightmares until they broke from them and died. It was late at night so there weren’t as many guards as during the day, but Len still dropped dozens of them in his tracks as he moved toward his target.

He stopped briefly to exchange clothes when he found a man close to his size. He had thought putting on the uniform of the people that’d imprisoned and tortured him might feel distasteful. But he found he didn’t care. They were black, with red accents, good to blend into the shadows with. It didn’t matter that the jacket had an embroidered _MM_ on the arms. Likewise, the full insignia of _Multiverse Militia_ sewn across the chest pocket, with the ring of planets and looping spirals connecting them, wasn’t important. It was just clothes, and ones that were infinitely cleaner and warmer than the ones he’d been wearing.

He wished he had time for a shower, but that wasn’t part of the plan. He put on the black socks and military grade boots that he’d stolen from his latest victim. Walking in shoes felt strange, he’d been barefoot for so long. But he’d expected that and didn’t let it slow him down.

He passed cell after cell in hallway after hallway. Some prisoners looked out at him, but they’d only see what looked like a new guard. He ignored them. They weren’t part of his plan. Only one was.

He got to the cell he was looking for and easily opened the door with the card he’d swiped from a guard with the correct access. The prisoner inside was lying on the ground and shivering, wearing a thin white shirt and white pants, over which ran a connected series of strong black leather straps. There were straps every few inches, each connected by smaller straps, covering his arms and legs, torso and stomach, even three on his neck like a string of collars. Each large strap had a separate lock attached. Each lock needed a specific key. Each lock had to be open in a specific sequence. Only when all the large straps unlocked could the entire harness system be taken off.

It was quite complicated. This prisoner had tried to escape many times. He’d almost succeeded a few, too. Between what Len had overheard and what he’d managed to see with his second eyes, he knew that much. He also knew he wanted this prisoner for his plan.

“Hello Flash….or should I say, Barry?”

The prisoner looked up at him and Len forced his face to remain cold. He knew Barry was broken, he thought he had been prepared to see it. But he wasn’t expecting this.

The Barry Len knew had been full of life, fire, even in the face of being beaten. He always had an annoyingly appealing certainty that what he was doing was right, and that everything would be alright in the end. This Barry was cowering, shaking, and not just from the cold. Len knew this Barry had been broken, but he didn’t know how. He didn’t have time to find out right now.

“What…who…who are you?! What do you want?!”

This wasn’t _his_ Barry, of course. This wasn’t the version of Barry Allen that Len had met before. Len had known that much going in. Apparently this one had never met a version of Leonard Snart at all. Len hadn’t expected that. But in some ways it made it easier. No expectations.

“You can call me Cold, for now. I’m getting out of here. I’d like to take you with me, if you’ll cooperate. I have the keys and know the unlock sequence to get you out of that thing, and let you access the full speed force again. If you behave and do me a few favors, you’ll be free in no time!”

Barry didn’t trust him. Of course he didn’t. But that didn’t matter.

“Sure.” The smile he gave was full of more irony and pain than any Len had ever seen from the other Barry. “What do I have to lose?”

Len wanted to make some quip about him getting to lose the shackles, but Barry’s expression silenced him. Len had expected convincing Barry to help him would take time, real persuasion. But apparently not. Not with that face. That was the face of a man that thought he truly had nothing else to lose in life. Had they killed everyone important to him? Or had they just convinced him they did?

No matter, Len would find out later. His mind was racing, subtly altering his plans mentally to account for this new information, and he knelt down toward the Flash. He unlocked two of the belts, one on each leg. Just enough for Barry to be able to run slightly faster than a normal person, but not supernaturally so; no faster than an Olympic runner.

If this Barry was semi-suicidal, and Len wasn’t sure yet if he was, he would have to handle him differently than he’d planned. But it could all still work. Maybe even more easily. If Barry didn’t think he had anyone to run home to, all the more reason for him to stay and work for Len.

\-----------------------------------------

“You have eyes in your hands that knock people out?”

Barry was blinking at Leonard’s hands, where the eyes were clearly visible and blinking back at Barry. It was the first time Len had let anyone see them. He didn’t want to admit that he felt a slight tensing in his stomach at the prospect.

“Putting it simply, yes.”

Len had no desire to try and explain exactly what his second eyes were doing to the guards they passed on their way out.

“Alright then.” Barry shrugged, as if he couldn’t care less.

But Len saw something in Barry’s eyes then, not judgment, but curiosity. It was the most life he’d shown during the hour or so it was taking them to move through the massive prison toward the docking bay, where they’d steal a ship. So far no one had sounded the alarm that anything was wrong.

Len had given Barry a laser gun and told him it was set to stun. He wasn’t sure Barry believed that lie or not, but he didn’t protest.

Len had reminded him that if Barry shot him, even with the keys, Barry didn’t know the correct sequence necessary to release the shackles. Barry had nodded and hadn’t even considered shooting him once since, from what Len could read of him.

Barry didn’t seem to care an iota about the downed guards. He hadn’t hesitated to shoot any that came within his range. He also made no move or suggestion to free any of the other prisoners. More evidence that this was definitely not the Barry that Len had known. Len hadn’t decided if he was happy about that or not. But it was convenient.

\-----------------------------------------

The _Waverider_ came into view and it looked…not particularly impressive, Len had to admit. That was partly because it was currently on the losing end of a space battle and getting pummeled by lasers from three different attacking ships. Len sighed. He hadn’t exactly _known_ this was going to happen. But he wasn’t surprised.

It was why he’d unlocked all of the shackles on Barry’s arms, save one each, and reprogrammed their ship’s computer to intake lightening fast commands from a speedster’s hands on the main consul. It didn’t transfer into anything nearly as effective as Barry’s unrestrained speed on foot, but it gave them just enough of an advantage.

The ship they’d stolen was a lot smaller than the _Waverider_ , and didn’t have time travel capabilities. But it made that up in speed, and with Barry at the controls that was all it needed. Two of the ships were destroyed and the last one fled.

Barry grinned at his handiwork and Len smirked back. The Flash was a fast learner, thankfully. A few days ago he had never flow a spaceship and now he was kicking ass in one. The deep sadness was still there on Barry’s face, behind that grin, but Len would work on that later.

Then Sara’s voice was on the intercom, demanding they identify themselves. And also thanking them, a beat later, as an afterthought.

Leonard was wholly unprepared for the sound of her voice feeling like a kick in the stomach to him, knocking the wind out of him entirely. He’d visited her plenty of times since the explosion. She’d never been able to see him, but he could see and hear her fine. There was no reason for these _feelings_ bubbling up in him now.

He shoved them down, refusing to acknowledge them. He’d used his powers countless times during their escape. It had been a long time since he had slept properly or eaten much. That was all. He was drained physically and mentally. Mick would make them something to eat once they got on board and…there was another blow to his stomach at the thought of Mick cooking for him again. He pushed that down, too.

He wasn’t sure how much of that had shown on his face, but from the way Barry was staring at him in question, some of it had. The speedster made a move to answer the message himself, pausing with his hand above the button waiting for Len’s approval. Len nodded and waved him to go on.

Len swore silently to himself as he saw the open eye on his waved palm, blinking back at him impassively. He closed his first set of eyes, took a deep breath, and calmed himself. When he reopened them, his second set of eyes were securely hidden again.

“This is the _IceLightening_.” Barry answered, using the re-naming of the ship that the two had agreed upon, as well as the com setting to mask his real voice on the other side of the line.

It was unlikely any of the _Waverider_ ’s crew that knew Barry’s voice would recognize it immediately anyway, but it was better to be safe.

“We’re happy to help and we have a proposition for you. We’d like to meet on neutral ground to discuss it, if you’re willing. I’m sending you coordinates to a nearby uninhabited planet now. We’ll meet you there in an hour’s time, if you agree to listen. Otherwise, we’ll see you around… but we might not be so helpful next time.”

Barry was following the script to perfection. Len was glad he’d gone over it with him beforehand. The Flash shut off the communication link before the _Waverider_ crew had time to respond and ask questions.

Barry sat back and said nothing for awhile, just watched Len. Leonard knew Barry was trying to figure him out. But Len’s cold mask was back on, no matter how much it had slipped for a moment.

“So that’s it, then.” Barry commented after awhile, referring to the _Waverider._

“Yeah, that’s home.”

Leonard hadn’t meant to say that. But it didn’t matter. Barry wouldn’t know what he meant, regardless. But Len could only deny it to himself for so long. That _ship_ wasn’t his home. Mick and Sara _were_. And he’d been away from them for far too long, been working toward getting back to them for far too long, for this to not affect him.

He needed Barry too, at least for now. He’d always found the Flash fascinating. This version of him was even more of a challenge to puzzle out. He did like challenges.

The rest of the crew could stay as well, he supposed, if they agreed to his plan. They all had their uses, if they didn’t prove to be more trouble than they were worth.

There had been a few slip-ups, it was true. But the best laid plans took that in to account. Leonard’s plans were always the best laid kind. And this one was soon coming toward climax. Len smirked to himself, even if no one else got to appreciate his mental puns.

**Author's Note:**

> -I’ve been considering a story where Leonard had Oculus bestowed powers that gave him an extra eye for awhile. Originally, I planned for it to be one eye in the middle of his forehead. The traditional ‘third eye’ with psychic powers placement, I think. 
> 
> But then images came out of Wentworth as Michael in the new season of Prison Break with eye tattoos on his palms, and I couldn’t resist taking inspiration from that. Also Len did have his hands in the Oculus while it exploded, so it makes a sort of sense that the eyes would form there.
> 
> If you haven’t seen the new Prison Break tats, here they are: (image&gif not by me)  
> http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/winged_kame/695039/62276/62276_original.jpg  
> http://ic.pics.livejournal.com/winged_kame/695039/62516/62516_original.gif
> 
> -There may be a sequel to this, not sure yet. If there is, there’s a high likelihood it will move toward a poly-foursome relationship, as that’s what happens when I can’t pick a pairing.


End file.
